


Scapegoat

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after the end of the episode 'Fall Girl'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scapegoat

"You didn't catch up with him then?" Now holding under one arm the SLR Bodie had thrust at him, Doyle showed no other sign of having moved.

As Cowley limped back across the weed-strewn concrete, he belatedly realised he was going to have trouble with both halves of this unit - not just Bodie. "No, he went on too fast."

"Marvellous. So you lost him." Doyle's venomous glare dismissed the effort Cowley had made.

The abrasive tone roused Cowley from his abstraction. There were times, he thought grimly, when it would be a pleasure to trim Doyle's tongue for him. "You can take that self-righteous expression from your face, 4.5. Aye, I lost him. Has an ambulance been called?”

"It's a bit late for that." It was, Doyle supposed, something that Bodie hadn't wanted Cowley with him either. Somehow that didn't help much at the moment.

Someone had covered Marikka with a car blanket. The limp, sprawled outline was still obviously that of a woman. Cars lined the rarely used roadway, over-coated figures standing hunched against the raw cold of the day in clearly defined groups. His nose was starting to run. Doyle wiped it absently on the back of his hand and huddled deeper into his jacket collar. He could see no sign of Schuman or Kreiber. Stupid to expect any at this stage of the game, Willis would have got them away at the first opportunity. He wouldn't want his triumph to be messed up at the last moment.

Doyle stared at the gas-holder. It must have been even colder up there - lonely, too.

Following the direction of Doyle's gaze, Cowley let his manner pass. “Perhaps it is too late but the formalities must be observed. A mortuary van would be a trifle obvious. Miss Schumann’s body will be handed over to the East German authorities as soon as possible."

No prizes for guessing who had been nominated for that little job. "I'll see to it,” Doyle agreed unenthusiastically. "Bodie?" He wasn't sure what he had been about to ask.

"Will no doubt rejoin us in his own good time." Cowley’s attention was on the group of men beyond Doyle.

"If Willis hasn't still got people gunning for him."

Cowley suppressed his angry retort. Doyle was essentially correct. The affair had been mishandled from the first and the responsibility for that must be his own. He knew Willis to be single-minded and ambitious, yet knowing that he’d been abysmally slow to recognise the lengths Willis would go to further an operation. His lips thinned, Cowley frowned. The need for a scapegoat was nothing new in their line of work, but for Willis to have the audacity to use one of _his_ men, without consulting him.

"Bodie will be of no further interest to Willis now. However, now he's been drawn to their attention, there may be others interested in what they believe he can tell them."

"The East Germans?" Doyle's slouching figure straightened.

"Possibly. I'm satisfied Bodie will be safe enough now but - " Cowley turned back to meet Doyle's all-encompassing scowl and paused. "After you’ve completed your report why don't you take a couple of days leave? Spend the time putting your new flat to rights."

Doyle stared at him in unblinking silence. They both knew there would be no point in him doing anything but repacking. After recent events they had to assume the address of every CI5 agent was known to Willis - and god only knew who else. The removal men were going to justify their salaries in the next few days, while everyone played musical chairs.

And here was Cowley telling him to sit tight.

The rifle slung over one shoulder, his free hand tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, Doyle shifted his weight onto his other leg and stared into cold blue eyes.

"Bodie won't be coming back to my place after what I've just done to him."

Cowley gave a faint sigh. It was no pleasant task having to vet one of your own, worse when the man concerned was your partner. "You did your job. No one is above suspicion in CI5, you know that. So does Bodie. You did what had to be done."

"Didn't I just. Well, I'll be off to get rid of the body." Doyle turned on his heel and stalked away before he could say anything he might later regret. It wasn't Cowley's fault Willis was a double-dealing bastard who would cheerfully sacrifice his own men unnecessarily, never mind anyone elses - to say nothing of a civilian, albeit an East German.

The end justifies the means.

How many times had he heard that old chestnut? Not that Cowley had ever been backward about setting them up if the occasion demanded it, but at least the old bastard thought twice about doing it. Besides, he trusted Cowley to throw them to the wolves only when there was no alternative.

What made it worse was not knowing the exact purpose behind the set up, although Doyle had an idea which he planned to check out. If he discovered that this particular end didn't justify what Willis had tried to do...

Then he'd have him. On toast.

Doyle paused to have a brief word with the ambulance driver, then tossed the rifle across to 2.8, who was standing nearby. It wasn’t the sort of thing to go carrying around the streets, unless you wanted to attract a lot of unwanted attention: CI5 had been getting too much of that over the last few days.

He clambered into the back of the ambulance and slammed shut the doors, lurching backwards as the vehicle got underway. What a fucking mess, he thought tiredly, staring at the floor. You got the usual pep-talk when you joined CI5. One of them had been unnecessary in his case. 'Trust nobody’ had been stamped on the soles of his feet, never mind engraved on his heart - that corruption case when he'd been in the Met. had seen to that.

But Bodie wasn't nobody, Bodie was his partner.

Doyle frowned. He'd never bothered to think about it before, taking Bodie and all the name encompassed for granted after their first six months together. A mistake that.When Cowley had given him the task of checking out Bodie's relationship with Marikka Schuman he hadn't taken the request at face value, presuming that, like as not, Cowley was having him checked out while he checked on Bodie. For obvious reasons one member of a unit was never used to make a security evaluation on its other half; which was why Doyle hadn't taken Cowley's orders seriously at first, especially when he had failed to see any sign of Willis' supposed surveillance. So he'd gone by the book, playing it according to the rules, and when it started to go wrong it had been too late to do anything else.

Alone in the jolting ambulance, Doyle twitched the concealing blanket away from the covered figure, studying the blank face of the woman he had met only today; the woman who had, in her way, loved Bodie. Out of all of them Marikka had been the only one who hadn't fucked Bodie up, the only one who had spared him a thought.

The agent had been getting more than his fair share of attention, one way and another. Right man, right qualifications and right contacts. Willis must have thought it was Christmas being handed a gift like Bodie and he'd been prepared to stitch Bodie up without a second thought.

Teach him to be more careful in future, Doyle thought with proprietorial satisfaction, because Bodie hadn't played it by the book - he never did - and that was what had kept him alive.

Doyle's gaze strayed back to the dead manikin face, bland now the life force was gone. He had learnt a lot about Marikka Schuman and her relationship with Bodie, as much from the questions she had started asking him the moment she accepted his commitment to Bodie’s welfare, as from the answers she had given at her own debriefing. She had smiled a lot while talking about Bodie, her voice soft with affection. No earth-moving passion there, but an obvious wealth of affectionate memories.

As he had listened to her, warming to her despite himself, Doyle had found himself envying Bodie in some obscure way, his own relationships never those of uncomplicated affection. As for why Marikka had taken the risks she had, that had soon become clear; seeing the approach of middle years she had triedt to recapture a time when she’d been happy, discontented with her present, fearful of her future. Live for today for tomorrow you may die.

Got it in one, love.

There had been no future in her meeting Bodie again, nothing to justify the risks she'd taken. She hadn't planned to abandon her husband, or to sacrifice her fine, capitalist career and defect, she'd just been a lonely woman intent on snatching the stuff memories are made of while she could.

Poor bitch. She'd deserved better than a bullet in the back.

No much of an epitaph that.

Tucking a fallen strand of hair back behind her ear with gentle fingers, Doyle recognised something else that had puzzled him. Marikka wasn't Bodie’s usual type by a mile. Too old for one thing, older than either of them by several years. And too bright. Not that bright, true, or not as intelligent as she thought herself, but she was way above Bodie's usual line in birds. There again, Bodie didn't wine and dine them for the quality of their minds. He wasn't given to buying them flowers either.

Only now was Doyle prepared to admit that it rankled that some eastern-block B movie actress had done more for Bodie than himself, Bodie's partner of more than three years.

Maybe that was something else Willis had destroyed. Doyle had seen the searing contempt - and the disillusion - in his partner's eyes as Bodie came down the steps. Was it any wonder? Thanks to Cowley, he knew Bodie had seen him outside the hotel and must have know he'd been tailed. For all that, he'd still come back to his flat, seeking out the one person he was prepared to trust. Then he would have seen Marikka.

Not a pretty thought that.

The slowing ambulance roused Doyle from his abstraction and he pulled the blanket back up over the pretty, plastic face. As the vehicle came to a halt he jumped out onto the road, tensing into a crouch, one hand already halfway to his holster.

"It's all right - Doyle, isn't it? Take it easy, you can leave the lady for us to dispose of - she has diplomatic immunity," Willis added succinctly.

"You must be well pleased with yourself,” Doyle said, one shoulder propped against the ambulance. "Everything sewn up nice and tight. No loose ends - except Bodie, of course.”

The gentle tone would have warned anyone who knew him.

"You need not concern yourself about Bodie, he’s being taken care of,” Willis said, only a fraction of his attention given to the man in front of him. With the resources supposedly at CI5's disposal he could only wonder what refuge Cowley had rescued this one from.

Doyle's straight-armed blow, aimed, deliberately low, caught him unprepared, doubling him over. Before either of the men accompanying Willis could react Doyle had him in an armlock, his Smith & Wesson nestling under Willis’ jaw, the cold metal snug against the pulsing artery.

"And how - _exactly_ \- is Bodie being taken care of?" he asked, an edge to his soft, too-controlled voice.

By now Willis was giving the dissolute-looking scruff holding him so painfully his undivided attention. He wasted neither his time nor barely recovered breath on the more conventional protestations.

"Stop acting like the thug you appear and start using your brain. Bodie - " Wasn't this man his - ? Damn. " - your partner is quite safe and likely to remain so. Neither I, nor anyone in my section, have any further interest in him. I meant only that after George Cowley has had a word with him, Bodie will be prepared to forget this whole unfortunate business. As I will, if you release me, now."

Ignoring the veiled threat, Doyle gave him a sunny smile that did not reach his eyes. "That's very reasonable of you. You won't be offended if I don't take your word for that, I hope?" His hand tightened its crippling grip, in stark contrast to his mild tone of voice. "And if that bloke who sneaked behind the ambulance hasn't reappeared by the time I count to five there's going to be a very - "

"Peters,” Willis called, his expression reflecting his chagrin. He cricked his neck to spare Doyle a look of dislike.

"That's better,” approved Doyle, unmoved. "Well done, Peters. Now, Willis, I'm going to let go of your arm. Don’t even think about - "

"You wouldn't dare."

Meeting the promise implicit in the cold eyes, Willis fell silent, his lips thinned with irritated exasperation. "Oh, get on with it, man. I don't have all day to waste."

"I appreciate that.” Doyle hooked his R/T from his inside pocket. "Busy man like you. 4.5 to Base. Patch me through to Alpha I."

"Alpha."

"I've got Willis with me outside the Embassy," announced Doyle without   
preliminaries. "He seems to think he's going to take charge of the handover."

There was a short pause.

"What do you mean, you have Willis with you?" Cowley demanded, distance doing nothing to mellow his tone as he homed in on the only matter of importance.

"He means,” grated Willis into the R/T being held helpfully under his nose, "that he is - literally - holding a gun to my head. I warn you, George, if you don't - "

"Aye. Thank you, Willis, but we can dispense with the rhetoric. Doyle, you've been over-zealous again."

Doyle smothered a surprised grin. Not only was Cowley authorising his actions, but the old bastard was damn nearly purring.

"Leave the body for Willis' men to dispose of, she's of no consequence now. I want the ambulance and yourself back here in twenty-five minutes, clear?"

"Sir."

"Good. Oh, and Willis?"

"George."

Willis had his irritation well in check now, determined that the small group watching this ridiculous charade from within sturdy wrought iron gates should be offered no further entertainment.

"I understand that Knowles is anxious to have a word or two with you - to congratulate you, no doubt?"

The name meant nothing to Doyle but the fleeting dismay on Willis' hard-boned face and the undoubted satisfaction in Cowley’s voice told him all he needed to know. Slipping his R/T back into his jacket pocket, he released the taller man completely and stepped back a fastidious pace, still very much on the alert.

"So sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he said, his enunciation a thing of beauty. "If you would be kind enough to remove the lady in question."

Willis turned to his car, one hand unconsciously massaging his bruised gut; ignoring Doyle, he snapped out instructions to his subordinates.

Matters were quickly resolved. Under the ironical eye of the East Germans, waiting to receive one of their own, the representatives of CI5 and British Intelligence parted company.

There was a persistent crackle from just above his heart. Sprawled in comfort along the length of the stretcher bed now it was unoccupied, Doyle opened his eyes and reluctantly fished the R/T out of his inside pocket.

"4.5."

"About time. My office, ten minutes. And I suggest you arrive with a convincing explanation for your attack on Willis," Cowley snapped, unamused.

“Yes, sir.”

"Is that an ambulance siren I can hear?" Doyle was given no opportunity to confirm it. "I thought such exhibitionist displays were your partner's province. Turn it off." Cowley had cut transmission before Doyle could say a word.

Doyle tucked away the small handset and pulled a wry face. Cowley’s approval never lasted long at the best of times. On this occasion he hadn’t given the old man much option but to back him or to lose face in front of Willis.

Bugger. He shouldn't have allowed that smug satisfaction of Willis' to get to him; he certainly shouldn't have hit the suave bastard. Still, at least Willis would have something to remember them by for a day or two.

Doyle flexed his hand. The only difficult moment was going to be in trying to present that line of argument to Cowley, who was not going to view his little foray in quite the same light.

Outwardly untroubled, inwardly braced for an unpleasant few minutes with no Bodie at his side to divert some of the flak, Doyle sauntered into Cowley's office where, true to his predictions, the full weight of Cowley's displeasure descended on his unprotected head.

 

Doyle had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang. As the   
uninterrupted peal echoed through his flat Doyle knew who it must be. Hauling on a bathrobe, he was still tying it as he ran down the staircase. Then he paused, returning to the intercom.

'"Hello."

"Bodie."

"Hang on.”

Disdaining modern technology Doyle opened the front door by hand, wanting the extra few seconds he gained for himself. Not sure what to expect, he was half-braced for either a blow or for a drunken figure to reel into the room.

Bodie was stone-cold sober.

He stared at Doyle's dishevelled figure for what seemed like forever. "If you've got company, get rid of them."

"There's no one else here.” Doyle could see lines of strain that had not been on Bodie's face the day before.

"Except for McCabe out the front d'you mean? Great."

Pushing Doyle aside with his shoulder, Bodie strode into the flat. He assessed the points of access and exit, noting the defensive capabilities of the flat he had never been inside. He was very clearly on guard against any kind of attack.

Doyle closed and locked the front door, taking undue care over the simple task. "While we're on the subject, Lucas is out the back. That means this flat's safe. Cowley thought you might come here," he added, watching the pacing figure through wary eyes. This was going to be...difficult. He had anticipated difficulty, what he hadn’t expected was the kind of icy control that closed him out completely.

Bodie paused, his back to the light. "Twenty-four hours ago I had a partner. I need a bath, a meal and a bed for the night. I reckon you owe me that much."

"You're probably right. But don't you think you're over-reacting a - "

Bodie wheeled around, holding Doyle's gaze until it dropped before his own.

"Over-reacting? Oh, I don't think so, do you, Ray me old mate. Was quite a surprise to see you outside the hotel. Less of a surprise to find you missing after that - until I saw you with Marikka, of course. You did a good job keeping tabs on her, you should think of taking it up for a living."

Doyle refused to react to Bodie's obvious contempt. "Cowley’s orders, not my choice. Someone had to do it and it was better kept in the family."

Bodie continued as if he had not spoken. "But while you’re a natural as a peeping Tom, as a bodyguard you're fucking useless."

Doyle offered no defence. Bodie had a point. Marikka had been in CI5 custody when she died. And he, he'd been watching Bodie.

His silence seemed to exacerbate Bodie's cold rage. His frown deepened as he noticed the microphone resting squat on a low table.

"Hear all you wanted, did you? You must've enjoyed that, you always were a one for all the salacious little details. Surprised you didn't plant a bug on me while you were at it." He replaced the microphone with a careful hand. "But maybe you did. You could have, because you're the last person I would have expected that from. Do I need to check the heels of my shoes or anything?"

"That's enough. You know bloody well I didn't. I was the one they went and bugged, mate. Would've simplified things no end if I could’ve wired you for sound. If you hadn't been so secretive none of this need have happened." Doyle's patience had always known well-defined limits, particularly when he felt himself to be in the wrong.

"So it's my fault,” nodded Bodie, glad to be enlightened.

"Oh, for chrissake!"

Turning, Doyle found his way to the kitchen blocked by an alert and very dangerous Bodie.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yeah, to get you a meal, it won't fix itself."

Doyle didn't want a fight on his hands, particularly not with Bodie. They'd never come to blows, despite some near misses, but if Bodie kept needling him like this... He knew himself too well to cherish any illusions. If Bodie really wanted a fight, he'd get one because he knew the right buttons to push, the provocation to offer that would make Doyle irresponsible enough to pick up the challenge without a thought for the consequences - no job for one.   
Besides, what would it solve? He understood Bodie's need to lash out at someone, and who better than himself? Bodie allowed himself to trust only select band of people. Today none of them had put up a very good display, himself least of all.

And Marikka was dead. Doyle could only guess what that loss might mean, there were too many things about Bodie he still didn't understand. But he knew enough to realise that well-meaning empathy wasn't going to be enough if Bodie kept needling him.

 

Sidestepping both the issue and the man barring the door, Doyle slipped under Bodie's outstretched arm into the kitchen. He had bought plenty of food on his way home, hoping that Bodie would come here.

Doyle set about preparing steak, oven chips and salad with a ruthless efficiency.

"Water's hot whenever you want a bath,” he announced without turning, feeling the cold, inimical glare boring into his back.

Two very different personalities, their partnership should never have got off the ground, except that it had, almost from the very beginning. Then it had just got better and better; not perfect, but as near to it as he was ever likely to find and he didn't want to lose it. Or his best friend.

He could sense the foundations of their partnership beginning to crumble without even being sure what he could do to stop it happening; one wrong word would finish it, he knew that much. His expression ferocious as he flipped over the steak for the third time in as many minutes, Doyle turned to say - something.

The doorway was empty, distant sounds telling him that Bodie was under the shower.

Poor sod looked exhausted, which was hardly surprising. He'd had a busy day one way and another.

Abandoning the meal he was preparing, Doyle changed into clean jeans and a tee shirt, before rescuing the sleeping bag he had just bundled into the bottom of his new wardrobe. He could repack it tomorrow, along with everything else. It didn't get used often. On the rare occasions when one of them put up the other for the night they shared the bed, mutually agreed   
that settees were no place to try and get a good night's sleep. Tonight he didn't have much choice but to try his out.

Sharing a bed left you with very little privacy and Bodie would want that tonight. He certainly wouldn't want Doyle next to him, reminding him of other, chosen bed-mates.

His feeling of guilt resurfacing, he savagely hauled the unravelling sleeping bag downstairs, tripping on a loose fold on his way. He picked himself off the bottom step, rubbed a bruised buttock and gave the too short, too hard settee a glare of dislike.

But he'd be hard-pressed to find anything he liked about this flat, with its long ill-lit rooms. It was like a bloody morgue, he decided, casting a look of disgust at the dark-painted walls. Accommodation usually did a fair job of matching agent with furnished flat; from the look of this one he was starting to wonder what was in his personal file if they thought he would take to this place.

He tested the despised settee, finding it more uncomfortable than he had anticipated.

Take some leave, he remembered with a spurt of bitterness, stalking back into the kitchen to set the table with more force than was necessary. Cowley knew what he was doing all right. Why the hell should he be expected to waste his leave babysitting Bodie?

Come to that, why should Cowley have come round here expecting him to know what Bodie was up to? Anyone would think they were -

Partners.

Viciously wrenching on the cold tap, Doyle watched the chalk particles swirl up from the furred interior of the kettle. Partners. All for one, one for all.

But that was Bodie in a nutshell, whatever he might pretend to the contrary. Who else would have bailed him out at the beginning of the Coogan affair, coming round afterwards as well, only to be greeted with a right earful. Bodie casually coming to his rescue more times than he could count, one way and another.

Doyle swore as he narrowly missed slicing the top of his finger off when he slammed the lid of the kettle back on. Okay, so Bodie guarded his back. That was no big deal, he'd done the same for Bodie. Protecting your partner's back was part of the job. Except Bodie took it further than that; making him laugh, irritating the hell out of him at every opportunity, pinching his clean shirts, socks and anything else he could squeeze into, meeting outrage with wide-eyed guile. The glint in those blue eyes while he set about conning him into a double date with some real horror story just so Bodie could get his lecherous hands on the current object of his desire.

Bodie wasting his own leave to chase across London with him when the Haydon affair was resurrected, sacrificing nubile barmaids to come round when it blew up in his gullible face. He'd been so fucking furious with Bodie and anyone else he could find to blame.

Doyle poured a mug of water, slowly sipping from it. It was about time he stopped taking all the bad times out on Bodie, there was a limit to anyone's patience, even his.

Although patience wasn't a word he'd associated with Bodie before.

Funny how good he was at knowing when he was needed though - and making sure he was around. And he was good company at any time, the best.

Refocusing, Doyle noticed the table with its meticulous place setting for one. It was miserable eating alone. Bodie liked company, most of the time.

Scarcely realising what he was doing, Doyle set another place and, seeking to make amends for his grudging hospitality of moments before, disappeared into the next room; he found one of the bottles of wine he remembered owning only in the last packing case he tried.

 

His hair curling damply at the nape of his neck, dressed in his own scuffed cords and one of Doyle's baggier shirts, Bodie took in the scene of domestic bliss with a jaundiced eye.

"Something’s burnt,” he announced, his nose wrinkling.

"Steak got a bit singed while I was in the other room. Do you want to open the wine while I dish up?"

"Why, we celebrating something?"

His mouth compressed, Doyle served the meal in silence, setting the larger portion in front of Bodie. Sliding into his own seat he stared at the contents of his plate for an unenthusiastic moment before he doggedly began to eat. The wine remained unopened.

Looking up moments later, a segment of unwanted steak still drooping on the end of his fork, he saw Bodie, his meal untouched, staring into space. Despite the bleak misery of his face, the set of Bodie's mouth invited neither sympathy nor comment.

This was a joyless end to a stinking day.

Doyle fiddled with his empty glass before cautiously breaking the silence "Thanks to Willis blowing everyone's cover to all and sundry we'll all be doubling up until they get new accommodation sorted out. You and me in particular. Safe houses will have to be changed too. The old man's a bit broody about the East Germans taking an interest in you, which is why we've got backup squatting in the bushes outside."

"Why should they be interested in me? They got what they wanted. Willis must be happy, Schuman didn't look too distressed and Cowley - " Bodie broke off what he had been about to say, bitter lines bracketing his mouth.

"Cowley was set up as much as you over this."

"Oh yeah?"

"C'mon, Bodie. You knew bloody well he was. Cowley might use us, has done in the past, but he wouldn't involve civilians and he'd never stand for CI5 gunning for another Intelligence agency. He's out for Willis' blood for what he tried to pull - on principle. It might be an idea for you to call in,” Doyle added, trying to sound off-hand. "Cowley's worried about you."

Sceptical blue eyes swept over him and finding Doyle of negligible interest moved to the cupboard behind his head. "I already have. Why else d'you suppose I'm here?"

His expression one of careful neutrality, Doyle replaced his glass on the table. "You wouldn't have come to see me otherwise?"

"Why the hell should you imagine I'd want to?"

"Dammit, someone had to check you out." Residual distaste for what he had done sharpened Doyle's voice.

"Funny you should have been his first choice for the job, isn’t it? Didn't occur to you to refuse of course. Or even to mention it to me for old times sake?"

Doyle drew a patient breath. "No. No, it didn’t."

"That's what I thought. As well to have it confirmed. I've asked Cowley to reassign me to solo work,” Bodie added in the same clipped tone. "He's going to consider it."

"Solo?" Doyle's elbow caught the handle of his fork as he leant across the table; neither man heard it hit the floor. "You're throwing in the towel over this?"

"Just as fast as I can, _mate_. I bloody trusted you. Without question or reservation. This time I'll learn by my mistakes - it's too expensive not to."

For a split second Doyle was given a hint of the pain Bodie was containing so precariously before he had himself under control again.

"I've no intention of spending half my time wondering if you're bugging our conversations for Cowley's edification. Save that for your next partner, he might not be so fussy. Now, can I have a bed for the night or would you prefer me to leave now?"

Doyle caught him by the wrist. "Course you've got a bed for the night - and for as long you need one.” He gave Bodie's arm a gentle shake, his fingers easing their grip. "Try to get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."

Bodie freed himself effortlessly, jarring the sturdy pine table as he rose to his feet. “Yeah, it's been that sort of a day, hasn't it? What the hell do you imagine we've got left to talk about?"

"Us,” said Doyle evenly, willing Bodie to listen to him.

"Us? That's got to be the first funny thing I've heard today. There isn't any 'us’, there never has been, you've been bloody careful to see to that, keeping your distance. I can understand why now. Well, you carry on,   
sunshine. You tell me about ‘us'."

Grimly satisfied, he saw that Doyle, sitting silent and pale at the table, had accepted that he couldn't charm his way out of this the way he tried to wriggle out of any emotion-charged scene that wasn't to his advantage. Turning on his heel, Bodie left the room before he could give in to the primitive desire to batter that motionless face bloody, to hurt Doyle in some small

way for what he all unknowing, had done.

But the worst of it was, Bodie acknowledged drearily, staring out across the darkened bedroom, that Doyle would never know why his betrayal had hurt quite so much.

 

Motionless at the table Doyle heard the door close and shut his eyes, cutting out his surroundings. But he could still see the lone figure on top of the gas holder - Bodie against the world - and understood what he had unwittingly done.

He didn’t know who was right and who was wrong - if anyone had ever been either, recognising only that he had just lost something he had never even appreciated he had, taking it all for granted, as his right.

He had no cause to whine, what Bodie had said had been mild compared to what he’d thrown at Bodie in the past. Maybe if he could remember what it felt like to be on the receiving end he'd be more careful of his own tongue. If there was a next time.

The smell of the untouched food hung heavy in the air. Doyle cleared it away and washed up, glad of something to do. Left with a spotless kitchen, he made a mug of tea and took it through into the lounge.

He was still sitting there, tea untouched, nearly two hours later when his R/T crackled into life.

 

Bodie awoke, unrefreshed, to the soft murmur of a familiar voice and a sense of dragging misery. He pushed the latter to one side and glanced at the alarm clock at the side of the bed: 01.57.

Who the hell was Ray talking to at this time of the morning?

Drowsiness banished, he silently left the bed and taking up his magnum moved to stand at the top of the staircase, remaining deep in the shadows of the unlit landing. If he was going to be set up a second time in twenty-four hours he wanted some advance warning.

"...clear. He called in the local coppers to take charge. They were well pleased. The blokes we'd caught were old hands, gave no trouble. Straight B&E by the gear they were carrying. By the time they were taken in they were looking very sorry for themselves. Lucas nearly frightened one of 'em into an early grave."

Unseen, Bodie frowned. He hadn't appreciated how seriously everyone was taking any lingering threat to himself. Doyle wasn't going to be very popular with his neighbours after tonight; armed men popping up from behind the rose bushes were frowned upon in suburbia.

Someone, apart from himself, was getting jumpy.

Cowley's voice, carrying clearly from the R/T Doyle was holding, drew Bodie's wandering attention back to the present.

"...over-reacted, myself included. Time to get things back into perspective. I've recalled Lucas and McCabe but a patrol car will make a point of being conspicuous in your area for the rest of the night. However - "

"I'll keep an ear open,” Doyle interrupted, massaging the nape of his neck with one hand.

It had been a hairy few minutes until they realised they had no more than a pair of burglars on their hands. And he wasn't proud of the fact that he'd come bloody close to going over the top - guarding the bottom of that bloody staircase even as he hoped Bodie wouldn't wake up and catch him doing it. Then Lucas, laughing like a drain, had reported back and the panic had been over. But he still couldn't shake off the vision of Bodie being spirited away by   
faceless, rain-coated figures, never to be seen again.

Been watching too much TV, he told himself gloomily.

He'd be better when he'd had some sleep, was too strung up now, unable to forget the disillusion in Bodie's eyes staring through him, his palms stinging from the force with which the rifle had smacked into them. Sort it out with Bodie tomorrow, Doyle promised himself optimistically.

"How is 3.7?" Cowley asked, with uncomfortable perspicacity.

"Asleep," said Doyle, not elaborating.

 

Bodie mentally applauded his partner's restraint, then pulled a face. That wasn't fair to Ray. He'd never been one to whine to authority.

"I see."

Bodie had the feeling that the old man probably did. He had been quick to spring to Doyle's defence when he had gone in to see him. Well, he was bound to, in the circumstances.

Security checks were a fact of life in CIS. It wasn't the fact he had been checked out that Bodie objected to, just the fact it had been his partner who had done the checking. No going through the motions, but the works - the tail, the bugs, probably gone through his flat. It was a dirty thing to do to anyone, let alone a friend.

“. . .that Bodie has requested reassignment to solo work?"

"Yes."

Bodie’s expression further soured. Well, that told him a lot that did. Christ, but Doyle could be a cold bastard. You thought you knew him. Glimpses, that's all you were given. And it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

"Doyle, I am attempting to establish your views on the subject." Cowley’s impatience was clear.

Doyle moved then, turning fully into the light of the table lamp. Catching sight of his unguarded expression Bodie knew a jolting shock of surprise, rooted to the spot even when Doyle's face returned to the shadows.

"Very considerate of you."

Out of habit, Bodie winced. He knew Doyle liked to live dangerously but this was asking for trouble.

Either Cowley was mellowing with age or he had misheard. "If you imagine I have nothing better to do than play twenty questions at this time of night, 4.5. Tell Bodie I want to see him tomorrow morning, eleven a.m., no excuses. I'll see you at one thirty. Clear?"

"As crystal." There was a small, apologetic pause. "Uh, is there any news about Schuman, sir?"

Bodie's hand curled over the stair rail.

"Schuman and Krieber, accompanied by a coffin, took the 23.55 flight home. The regrettable death of Marikka Schuman has not been linked to Biermann's, although the matter has received extensive - and erroneous - coverage by the media. Any private speculations you may have regarding Biermann's likely successor take you into the realms of classified information, so keep them to yourself. We are, however, 'cautiously pleased’,” Cowley quoted, his voice dry. "I leave you to tell Bodie about Schuman as and when you feel the time is appropriate."

"Thanks,” said Doyle with wasted irony, for Cowley had already cut communication.

 

Giving the silent R/T a glum look, Doyle tossed it to one side. He could hardly wait to fill Bodie in on the identity of their new head of East German Intelligence, or on how he had won his promotion. Schuman was a real sweetheart; his own wife... Cowley couldn't tell them what it had all been about, officially he shouldn't even have said what he had. The fact that he   
had done so was a demonstration of trust, in them both. Which meant that even Cowley was making the mistake of still thinking of them as a pair.

 

Bodie's attention was still concentrated on his white-knuckled hands.

All for the greater political good. The final irony that the starring role of this production should have been given to someone whose interest in world affairs had never extended beyond reading illicit copies of 'Variety’. Or those American film magazines he'd smuggled in for her that time...

Closing his mind to the pain of it, Bodie looked down into the room below and Doyle’s hunched figure.

Cowley had no right to expect Ray to explain it to him. But then who expected life to be fair? Christ, don't you ever learn, he told himself contemptuously. Sooner or later everyone lets you down.

But instead of his bitter misery taking him back to his warm bed Bodie remained where he was, confused, angry and heart-sore, held by the naked hurt he had glimpsed on his partner's face.

There had been nothing detached about Doyle's expression of a few minutes before; disconcerting to discover your importance in someone's life by accident - unless he was just seeing what he wanted to again. His expression one of puzzlement more than anything else, Bodie watched Doyle's foreshortened figure prowl aimlessly around the room before it came to rest by the window where he remained for quite some time.

Why pile the blame on Ray? What the hell had he expected him to do after Cowley had given him the surveillance detail - refuse? What would he have done if their positions had been reversed? Bugger it anyway, he thought, impatient with himself. All this wasn't because he didn't trust Ray, nothing so simple, even if it did an important part of it. No, it had taken Marikka in that impersonal hotel bedroom to show him the truth. Seeing Doyle outside, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her, Bodie had finally recognised what he had already begun to suspect: what he wanted the most he was never going to have.   
But still he would have taken Marikka, lit her with his own fire for the times when the fire had been for her alone. And she would have understood, if he had ever told her, if they'd been left enough time. An artist must be without prejudice, she had told him sweepingly; at twenty, lost to romantic love, he would have believed the moon was made from cheese if she'd told him it was so.

Hard to accept that anyone so warm and in love with life could be dead.

Bodie closed away the memories, storing them until he could deal with them and gave a twisted smile, focussing instead on the man in the room below; the source of his newly admitted need. The hunger had been there for a long time. Only now could he see that it was not quite as simple as he had supposed, not something to be dispelled by a long, hard fuck.

Pointless speculating, he wouldn't get that either.

While there was a lot he still didn't understand about the paradox that was Ray Doyle, Bodie was pretty certain that whatever Doyle felt for him, passion had no part of it. Not so much rejection of himself as a sexually attractive entity as a total disregard of him in that light. Having discovered the joys of women at fourteen, Doyle had never paused to wonder what other options might be open to him. Bodie was prepared to bet that Doyle would be   
hard-pressed even to describe him, save in official terms.

Shit.

Sliding deeper into the confusion of his emotions Bodie tried to stop thinking altogether for a while.

 

Oblivious to the man watching him so intently, Doyle finally moved from the window, the blind making a small sound as it fell back into place. He picked up an LP and looked absently for a place to put it. Might just as well start packing as stand here moping.

The squat shape of the microphone caught his eye.

With a vicious, "Bugger it!" he wrenched the plug from the wall, sending the microphone clattering to the floor.

 

"That's no way to treat government property,” admonished Bodie from the top of the stairs, deciding it was time to make his presence known rather than be caught spying. There had been enough of that recently, he thought with errant bitterness.

Doyle wheeled around, his expression anything but welcoming. "Thought you were asleep."

His hand rammed in the pocket of the bathrobe that was still damp from when Doyle had worn it, Bodie wandered down the steps and into the circle of light.

"I was,” he said mildly. "Heard voices and decided to get up and see if there was any coffee going."

"And to make certain I wasn’t selling you out," recognised Doyle bitterly, having seen the unmistakable outline of Bodie's magnum dragging down the pocket of his towelling bathrobe.

It was uncomfortably near the truth.

Bodie realised he had left convincing rebuttal too late when he saw Doyle's mouth curve into a travesty of a grin, his gaze fixed on the pocket sagging under a weight it had not been designed to carry. Then he looked up, holding Bodie's gaze in a look of open, unblinking challenge.

"You won't be needing that, I've done my bit," he said and it was unclear who the wounding mockery was intended for.

Bodie was concentrating on Doyle's expression, only now recognising it as the public defence Doyle chose to assume; usually its appearance aggravated Bodie so much that he neglected to wonder at its origin. So he had learnt something tonight after all.

"Second nature, you know that," he dismissed, gesturing to the pocket with a shrug. "Heard you and the old man on the R/T."

"And listened in?"

"Wouldn’t you?" Bodie countered, slumping down onto the settee.

Doyle nodded, rubbing a hand over a face from which all hint of challenge had vanished, leaving only weariness. "So you heard about Schuman and - "

"Yeah."

What had happened was nothing new, that didn't mean he had to pretend to like it.

"That's a relief." Doyle's candour took him by surprise. "Wasn't looking forward to telling you."

"No." Bodie made a perceptible effort, trying to bridge the chasm between them. "If I'd been thinking straight I expect I'd’ve worked it out, eventually. Knew there had to be some reason behind it. Doesn't help much. They didn't have to kill her. She had nothing more she could have told them."

A moment later Doyle was sitting next to him, warm, solid and comfortingly close. A hand rested on his arm.

Bodie got up, dislodging it. "Make myself a coffee. You want one?"

"Okay. You want anything to eat with it?" Doyle added, accepting that he had been closed out again.

"Wouldn't mind a sandwich,” Bodie conceded. He only realised he must have been staring when Doyle began to fidget.

"Cheese okay?"

"Fine."

Fumbling with cheese and the grater Doyle succeeded in grating more of the knuckle of his thumb than the cheese he held. Not only couldn't he talk to Bodie all of a sudden but he was starting to feel ill-at-ease in his company. Bloody ridiculous, he told himself firmly, and dropped the bread knife.

Bodie plugged in the kettle, found clean mugs and spooned in coffee and sugar with automatic efficiency. There was a terrible normality about the scene that was highlighted by this new constraint between them, the inescapable fact that, when it came down to it, he no longer trusted Ray.

Watching him engaged in fumbling domesticity - not like Ray to be so clumsy, he noted peripherally - Bodie found it difficult to accept that Doyle's intent face could have ever been so revealing. It wasn't usually. In fact, although Doyle was inclined to be moody and introspective, quick to laughter and irritation, how many times had he seen Ray really let go of that ferocious temper of his - once, twice? He just simmered a lot.

For all that, Bodie could think of few people he would rather be with, regardless of Doyle’s mood. They seemed to have been spending a hell of a lot of time together recently, sharing everything - even their women. A mixed blessing that, simple double dates developing into something far more intimate, igniting his always submerged interest. Afraid he might betray himself one fine, dark night Bodie had made excuses, so Doyle had taken to setting them up   
instead. At that point Bodie had given up worrying and concentrated on enjoying himself.

But they had always spent the odd evening or day off together, sliding into the habit when he had come back on duty after his hands had healed up.

About to pick up their mugs, Bodie stared at the almost invisible scar on the back of one hand and gave the ghost of a smile. Maybe that was when it had all started.

He'd been lucky all the way on that one, the hospital only keeping him in the one night after he had lied about the help he had waiting for him back at the flat and promised to make the innumerable trips to outpatients for therapy. In the event he'd had more help than he had anticipated. Ray had stuck to him like a limpet, refusing to be kicked out. Not a particularly skilled nurse cum valet, certainly not a patient one, Doyle had seen him through the long, tedious weeks of waiting; the early days when the pain had been bad, or when depression had set in while he waited to hear whether that nerve was permanently damaged.

Doyle had virtually lived with him for the first month, turning up on his doorstep like some belligerent bad-fairy every time he was off-duty. In fact, thinking about it, that was where Doyle's leave had gone that year.

It must have been a thankless job because if he'd had the use of his hands that first week he would have thumped the irritating little sod. Bullying, coaxing, moaning, joking - Ray had steered him through it all, making no concessions whatever to his pain or depression: supposedly.

Doyle had taken a lot of stick, right up to that final visit to the hospital when they had given him the all clear. He could still see that blinding watermelon grin Doyle had given him. That night their roles had been reversed with a vengeance, leaving him to steer a blind drunk Ray Doyle into bed. He'd been diabolical company after that, as if to compensate, and it had been easy to forget.

In three years together that hadn’t been the only time either, nothing dramatic just a lot of small incidents that added up.

Bloody contradiction, that was Doyle: sweet and sour.

Bodie abandoned the kitchen and his memories before he became maudlin. He was tired enough. Halfway through his impromptu meal, growing accustomed to the untypical, uncomfortable silence between them, he looked up in time to see Doyle glance away, as though he had thought the better of whatever he had been about to say.

Glad of it, Bodie pushed his plate with its half-finished sandwich onto the table and announced his intention of going back to bed, welcoming the chance to escape the constraint between them and the tired treadmill of regrets turning in his brain.

He fell asleep quickly but woke several times, disturbed by fragmented dreams of loss. Burying his damp face in a pillow that smelt comfortingly of Ray Doyle, he finally sank into a dreamless sleep.

 

When Doyle awoke it was to find himself curled in a cramped knot in the corner of the settee, a half empty mug of coffee staring him in the face. Grimacing, he unlocked stiffened muscles, swearing under his breath. He yawned, then focussed on the alarm clock that hadn't been on the table earlier.

So that was what had woken him. It was just after eleven. Bodie must have set it for him before he went off for his meeting with Cowley, careful they shouldn't meet before he left.

Propped up on one elbow Doyle realised that he was warm - hot -from the unzipped sleeping bag tucked around him. Last he had seen of it, it had been bundled over in the corner by the stereo, which meant that Bodie must have found it for him.

Cheered by the small gesture of concern, which previously he would have taken for granted, Doyle padded upstairs, finding his bed neatly made and all traces of Bodie's occupation eradicated.

So he wasn’t planning to come back.

Showered and shaved, he made himself a fresh coffee, staring out of the rain-splattered window while he sipped it.

This was it then, Bodie hadn't changed his mind.

Doyle had never considered that they would voluntarily split up the team, not even in the beginning, when the very sight of Bodie's immaculately groomed assurance had been enough to make him bristle with irritation.

There again, he'd avoided thinking about the subject at all.

The evasion was a natural one. A partnership was usually terminated by death or injury; incompatible teamings were split as soon as the mistake was discovered.

Three years - a mistake?

If Bodie was given the reassignment he wanted, what would he do? Maybe he could try working solo himself?

Doyle rejected the idea immediately. He couldn't imagine working without a partner now, and not just any partner. He couldn't imagine working with anyone full time but Bodie. Ironic that, considering the fuss he had made when Cowley first teamed them together. He'd learnt a lot since then - from and about Bodie. And the main thing about him was the fact that he couldn't stand being fussed over or questioned. If he wanted to tell you something, he told you, straight out, no messing. Otherwise... otherwise you worked on making him want to tell you.

Sounded easy put like that.

Doyle gave the sprawled sleeping bag another thoughtful look. Bodie needn't have bothered with that, or the alarm clock. Stupid to make too much of this. Anyway, brooding about it wasn't going to solve a thing, he decided, gulping down the dregs of his coffee. Bodie was a free agent and would do whatever he wanted.

Finding himself pinning his hopes on the fact that Bodie might still want the same things he did, Doyle went off for his own meeting with Cowley.

oOo

 

Sitting with morose lethargy in the corner of the shadowy booth, his head resting back against the heavy wooden panel that divided over half the saloon into discreet stalls for those inclined to privacy, Bodie stared unenthusiastically at the dregs of his third drink, turning the glass between his fingers.

The pub was a hole, but it served a purpose - and lousy beer. Bodie wasn't in the mood to be too particular. Too tired to go home and catch up on lost sleep, it was too much effort to contemplate finding somewhere else to go for the evening.

He had just spent one of the most terrifying days of his life, certain at one point that neither he nor Doyle would survive to resolve their differences. He still wasn't sure how they had managed to.

And when it had finished, the stink of cordite, blood and dirt acrid in the air, he had refocused to find Doyle crouched at his side, smiling. Bodie had left him there without a word or backward glance, afraid of what he might otherwise do to Ray for the risks he had taken. In the normal course of events he would have bawled Doyle out there and then, bought him a pint and they would have started making their plans for the evening; something a little wild, a little extravagant to celebrate the fact that they had survived against the odds, again.

Christ. he was tired. Needed to unwind.

His mouth pulled down at the corners, Bodie twirled his glass between idle fingers. He could always ring Nikki, see if she was free. Monday night, she probably would be. But he didn't want Nikki; besides, tonight he wouldn't be fit company, wasn't prepared to make the necessary effort to be either.

There had seemed very little point to anything since Marikka had died. It was the waste of it, the stupid bloody waste.

Still, the old man's idea had paid off. He and Ray were still working together and if things weren't quite the same as they had been before the Schuman affair they were better than he had expected. Only he and Ray knew what was missing.

Bodie knew he should put in for reassignment. It was stupid and dangerous to think they could go on like this, with only half their attention on the job, every conversation barbed with malice and tension. And for once he couldn't blame it all on Doyle.

It was funny how you could miss someone when you saw them every day.

" - you have?"

Hearing a familiar voice, Bodie's head shot up. Preparing to leave, he sank silently back into the shadows when he recognised the other voice.

"Uh, an orange juice, thanks." Cowley and Doyle - socialising.

His face and torso in the shadows, Bodie knew he was unlikely to be spotted, unless he wanted to be. And he emphatically did not want to be. Catching a glimpse of a familiar figure as Cowley returned from the bar, drinks in hand, Bodie knew he had not been seen. He heard the scrape of chairs from the booth behind his back and an indistinct murmur of voices as Cowley set the glasses down.

"Scotch?"

"Aye, you look like you could use it. Relax, I'm not likely to make a habit of it."

"I never doubted it, sir. It's a good drop of stuff this,” said Doyle, but he sounded dutiful rather than enthusiastic.

Bodie listened to a familiar dissertation on the ruinous price of a decent malt these days, wondering why Doyle should be out with Cowley in the first place. His last glimpse of Ray had been back at headquarters, in the rest room, chatting up Betty. He hadn’t been making a very good job of it.

"So what did you want to see me about, sir?"

Bodie frowned. Surely Cowley wouldn't be putting Ray on another case already?

"You don't consider your company worth having for its own sake?"

"Not at pub prices for Glenfiddich, no,” replied Doyle, but it was clearly an effort.

They'd had a hard seventy-two hours and if Ray felt half as tired as he did Cowley wasn’t going to be the ideal companion.

"Am I holding you up? You don't have a prior-engagement this evening?"

"Should I have?"

Bodie wasn’t surprised by the wary note in Doyle’s voice. Cowley taking an interest in your social life was a guaranteed ball-breaker.

"And you can take that look off your face,” Cowley snapped with an asperity that made Bodie give a reluctant grin. "It occurred to me that the pair of you might have one of your more disreputable 'celebrations' planned."

There were times when Bodie wondered about Cowley's sources of information.

"No." Doyle did not sound surprised, merely tired.

"I see. Are you going to drink that scotch or stare at it all night?"

"I didn't realise it was an order."

Bodie winced. If Ray didn't cool it, Cowley would spread his guts all over the floor.

Cowley's sigh was quite audible. "It wasn't. So we've established you have nothing planned for this evening."

"Mmm."

"No young lady eager to be wined and - er - dined?"

"No." It sounded as though Doyle had his teeth clenched.

"Do you mind telling me why?"

From the ensuing silence it was patently obvious that Doyle did.

"I suppose if I offer you another drink I'll be accused of trying to loosen your tongue with hard liquor."

"Uh... Am I that hard going?” Doyle sounded as though he was smiling,

"Worse.”

"Oh. Well, no, I haven't fixed anything up. This is why. I'm never very good company after a heavy job."

"I can understand that. Which is why I have been known to make allowances for the odd excess among my agents."

A couple of reminiscences followed that made Bodie grin. He heard a familiar throaty chuckle from the next booth and realised that he hadn't heard Doyle sound so relaxed for a while.

"That last, it wouldn't have been Jax by any chance?"

"You should know better than to ask. It wasn't as it happens."

Then it had to be Lewis, thought Bodie with glee, realising he had the perfect blackmail lever. The likelihood of the stolid Lewis ever having anything worth being blackmailed for was, of course, immaterial.

"Pity. Oh, thanks, mate." The last was obviously to the barman, who had brought another glass of scotch over to their table. For Cowley, Bodie presumed.

"So why did you want to see me, sir?"

Cowley made a hissing sound of exasperation. "Why must you persist in believing your company of so little merit? You aren't normally so modest."

"True. But in the three years I've worked for you, you drink for pleasure at the Red Lion. And I still don't know what we're doing here."

"You have something against the place? Och, relax. I just wanted a quiet word and a dram. How would you rate your present efficiency?" There had been no warning in Cowley's voice of that below the belt question.

It was followed by an abrupt pause.

"I'm alive,” said Doyle finally.

"And that's about all that can be said in your favour at the moment. Bodie's doing little better. The pair of you were lucky today, damn lucky. I've no truck with luck, it can run out too fast and I've no mind to lose either of you - particularly not through your own stupidity. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Do you imagine I fail to notice when one of my best teams begins to show every sign of falling apart? You nearly got those pretty curls permanently parted this afternoon. For heaven's sake, man, the first thing you were taught is how to work with someone, as a team. Bodie had no more warning of what you were planning than Regis did! He had no idea of your position and in consequence came damn close to killing you. Don't you two even talk to each   
other any more? What - exactly - is wrong, or must I ask Bodie?"

"Ask who you - "

Bodie heard the effort it took Doyle to catch hold of his temper. "Nothing's wrong. This afternoon... This afternoon was my fault. I stopped concentrating."

"I gathered that much. Well, I'll say no more about that piece of foolhardiness for I've no doubt Bodie has already given you a piece of his mind, which you always seem to take more heed of than anything I might offer."

There was an pause. "Bodie has spoken to you about it?"

"There were reports to file, ends to tie up,” evaded Doyle.

"Very commendable. They’re small details neither of you have permitted to weigh heavily in the past. So while you insist that nothing is wrong am I to understand that you and Bodie aren't talking?"

"Of course we're talking," snapped Doyle, on the defensive, "we're not bloody psychic!"

"There were times when one might have thought otherwise," remarked Cowley placidly.

"Times change."

Doyle's voice was so devoid of expression that Bodie scarcely recognised it.

"So what’s the trouble? I'm not prepared to risk either of you in the field again until I am satisfied neither of you will prove a liability."

"There isn't any trouble,” insisted Doyle irritably. "It's just...it's taking Bodie a while to adjust over what happened to Marikka Schuman."

Bodie gave a mirthless grin. Thanks, friend.

"I had anticipated that,” said Cowley, unsurprised. "What I hadn't anticipated was that it would impair his relationship with you. I had supposed that if anyone could help him through this difficult patch it would be yourself."

Doyle mumbled something Bodie could not hear.

Nor, obviously, could Cowley.

"What was that?"

"I said,” enunciated Doyle with angry clarity, "that so did I."

"Did I make a mistake in not reassigning the pair of you when Bodie first requested it?"

“Maybe.”

Bodie set his glass down with a furious click.

"But..." Doyle took an audible breath, "this week will see it sorted out, one way or another."

"Very comforting. And if one of you gets his head blown off during this touching reconciliation?"

"Look, I take your point, sir. And I agree, personal differences between agents shouldn’t be your province. But,” Doyle's voice hardened, "you've chosen to make this your affair. We both know that Bodie and I are one of your best teams. That's why you put up with as much as you do but - "

"Oh, is that why?" said Cowley, enlightened. And in diffusing the conversation he sounded amused again.

"And because I'm stupid enough to keep your glass topped up. Lucky you've got Sally stuck out in the car, I wouldn't like to think of you driving yourself home otherwise."

Only Doyle, thought Bodie with resigned affection, could get away with that piece of cheek.

"Cheers, mate." The barman disappeared from view again. "Bodie and I can sort it out,” Doyle insisted.

"I hope you're right. And in the meantime? I've no mind to lose either or both of you while this 'sorting’ process takes effect. How do you account for this sudden failure to communicate?"

"You've kept us busy."

"And that's as poor an excuse as I've ever heard from you. The problem is usually to get a word in edgeways while the pair of you are engaged in your double act. I expected... Is Bodie’s welfare of so little interest to you?"

Bodie's head shot up, his eyes boring through the wooden partitioning. Why the hell should Cowley automatically assume the fault was Ray's?

"I - "

Again Bodie heard Doyle batten down his anger. When he did speak there was a trace of rueful amusement in his voice.

"You need to get me tighter than this. The real problem is the fact I   
checked Bodie out. He didn't like it. I can't say I blame him."

"No one enjoys security checks, or the necessity of making them, but they're a fact of life within CI5. Which brings me to another point. I have rarely heard a more inept or partisan debriefing than the one you conducted with Mrs Schuman. Has Bodie heard the tapes of that?"

"You must be joking. They're not what I'd call bedtime listening at the best of times. When it's your bird that's being interrogated it's hardly the best of times."

"Perhaps not." There was a thoughtful note in Cowley's voice that Bodie mistrusted on principle. "You liked Marikka, didn't you - or was it simply because she was a friend of Bodie’s?"

"I believed her.” Doyle's tone defied contradiction.

"So you said at the time. Fortunately her statement proved to justify your touching faith. I suppose it was unrealistic to expect anything but partisan behaviour from you. What would you have done if Bodie had proved to be working for the East Germans?"

Bodie sat a little straighter in his seat. That was the thousand dollar question all right.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Better men than Bodie have worked for two masters.”

"Very likely but I don't see the relevance - you've always trained us not to wallow in ‘ifs' and 'maybes'. The case is closed."

"So it is," agreed Cowley, with what Bodie could only consider remarkable forbearance. "Very well, look on it as a hypothetical question."

"Come off it. Okay, I can see what you're after, but if you're asking what I would've done, the honest truth is - I don't know. But I do know Bodie, it wouldn't happen."

"So you say. And you, I suppose, must know Bodie better than most, know all there is to know of his background, how he came to meet Mrs Schuman in the first place?"

Bodie couldn't have moved from his seat if his life had depended upon it.

"No." Incredibly, it sounded as if Doyle was smiling. "I don’ know how he met her. Bodie isn't a great one for talking about himself."

"But you claim to know him?"

"I know all that matters."

There was a flat confidence in Doyle's voice that Bodie had never expected to hear.

"It's strange, I hadn't appreciated that the continuance of the partnership was so important to you."

"Now that is odd, seeing that you had me in your office only ten days ago telling you precisely that." A chair scraped across the floor.

"Sit down, Doyle. Yes, I know you're angry - and justifiably so - but I needed to know where your loyalties lie."

"And now you do."

 

"Aye. Well let's hope Bodie stays as pure as driven snow.”

"If it's purity you're after, you're flogging a dead horse." Doyle didn't try to deny the implication behind what Cowley had said.

"Quite,” said Cowley crushingly. "You realise that on the basis of what you've just told me I should - at best - split the pair of you. Your divided loyalty makes you both a liability and an unacceptable security risk. It would, of course, be more prudent to dispense with your services altogether."

There was a lengthy silence during which Bodie would have given a lot to see Doyle's expression. He had a fair idea that it would mirror his own.

"I can see I wasn't too bright just now,” Doyle conceded finally, refusing to ask the question so temptingly dangled before him.

"The only difficulty being,” continued Cowley, as though there had been no interruption, "that I would, of necessity, have to take the same action with virtually every unit I've teamed together. Well, don't look so surprised, man. Did you imagine you and Bodie were unique in the success of your working relationship? Yes, knowing you, you probably did. Why do you suppose I have so many solo agents?"

Doyle muttered something unintelligible. "So what happens now?" he added. He sounded exhausted.

"Very little, right now. I shall endeavour to forget certain portions of this   
conversation, while you finish your drink. There's a phone call I must make. Then,” Cowley's voice softened a little. "Relax, I'm satisfied the pair of you will be causing me trouble enough for years to come."

Doyle's apathetic response revealed it was a confidence he was far from sharing.

Bodie heard the soft scrape of a chair and the sound of footsteps. It must be Cowley going to make his call because Doyle had been wearing trainers.

Deep in thought, he looked up a few moments later and flinched when he found   
Cowley standing opposite him, holding two full glasses.

"Good evening, 3.7. It would seem that my presence is required elsewhere and you know my views on wasting good malt whisky. I'll leave these for you to dispose of."

It was only then that Bodie realised Cowley must have known he was here from the first, which meant, apart from anything else, that his interrogation of Doyle had been unnecessary. Unless - outrage followed comprehension, almost robbing him of the power of speech.

"It didn't occur to you to ask me straight out what the trouble was?" he said in a cold undertone that carried no farther than the man across the table.

"Why should it, I already knew,” Cowley told him, his own tone equally muted as he fastened his heavy topcoat against the chill outside. "But it occurred to me that you might not be in possession of all the salient facts. Neither you nor Doyle are great ones for talking about yourselves, even to each other. Incidentally, I neglected to mention it to Doyle but the pair of you have two days leave. I hope you put them to good use, I've no wish to lose either of   
you." With a brisk nod, he turned away, making for the door of the saloon bar.

Bodie watched him go with narrow-eyed disbelief. The devious, manipulative old sod. He picked up the two glasses of scotch and marched round the wooden partition, determined to have it out with Doyle once and for all.

As he heard footsteps Doyle looked up. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, seeming not to know that he was smiling.

"Giving the old man's apologies,” said Bodie, recognising that his anger had been misdirected for too long. "He's been called away, sent me in with these." He slid a brimming glass across the table, slipping into a vacant chair with every appearance of ease.

There was already an untouched drink between Doyle's unmoving hands. "Ah, so Cowley made you come to see me this time as well, did he?"

Remembering the warmth of the smile which had greeted his arrival, Bodie ignored the biting tone.

"Cowley can do a lot of things, mate. Choosing my drinking partners for me has never been one of them. I was already here when the pair of you arrived." He held Doyle's suddenly wary gaze. "I didn't realise you felt like that about things."

"No, well you never bothered to ask, did you,” said Doyle, too weary to sound bitter. "You heard the whole conversation then?"

Bodie nodded. "I stayed because I couldn't work out what the two of you were doing together. After a couple of minutes it didn't seem tactful to start coughing. I should've asked you,” he added, offering an unexpected apology.

Doyle looked up with a wry smile. "Nah.You'd've only thought I was paving the way to ask for a loan or something,” he said, in more of his usual tone.

"And do you?"

"Do I what?" Off-guard, Doyle stared at him.

"Want a loan?"

For a split second Bodie saw the moment when Doyle, his defences down, took the feeble joke at face value. Then Doyle managed to smile; this time it did no more than curve his mouth.

"Sorry, sunshine,” said Bodie, immediately contrite. "For everything. I haven't been thinking too well recently.'

"And you are now?" Doyle's head was bent as he concentrated on the ring of damp left by his glass on the varnished veneer of the table.

"I think so."

"Shame it took Cowley to make you see it." Doyle shook his head. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm too tired." He looked incuriously across the table, withdrawn again. "You must be as well."

"Knackered,” confirmed Bodie with a trace of gloom. But there was no need to pretend with Ray. "But you were right, the day Marikka died... I needed to blame it on someone. Considering most of the mess can be laid at Willis’ door I dunno why I've taken it all out on you. Because I knew you'd take it, I suppose. Not a very good reason, is it,” he added bleakly.

"Good enough," said Doyle, relaxing back in his chair. "I seem to remember doing the same thing to you on the odd occasion. Worse than being married." Then he shook his head, correcting himself. "Nah, at least you don't have to take me home with you."

Bodie stared at him through unfathomable dark eyes, his abstraction making Doyle wonder if he had, inadvertently, hit a nerve.

"Look, whatever I've said over the last couple of weeks - I can't think of anyone I'd rather work with, or that I'd trust myself to,” Bodie added with dogged awkwardness. But he wanted Doyle to be certain of that.

Looking up, he received a grin of open affection. "Daft bugger," said Doyle. He slid his untouched drink across the table. "Here, you have this and I'll drive you back to my place, we can collect a Chinese on the way and talk in comfort."

"What about?" asked Bodie, his face guarded once more as he picked up the second of the untouched drinks.

"Anything you like, except work,” added Doyle with feeling.

Bodie drained the contents of the glass, welcoming the smooth bite of the malt. "Right. Oh, while I think of it, we've got two days leave."

"Terrific, I can rediscover sleep." Doyle ignored the remaining drink and got stiffly to his feet. "What brought you to this pub in the first place?"

"I stopped at the first one I noticed,” said Bodie honestly, propping the door open for him. "What I can't work out is how Cowley knew where I was - he set up the whole conversation you know."

Doyle turned, his surprise short-lived. "He's always been a devious old bugger,” he acknowledged. "Took me like a pro."

"Listen, mate, Cowley'd take anyone." Bodie paused at the side of Doyle's car, gesturing across the parking space. "What about mine?"

"I'll drop you back here tomorrow morning, unless you think you're under the limit? Now wouldn’t be a good time for you to get nicked."

 

Bodie waited until they were back in the car, having stopped at the first takeaway they came to, before he asked the question that had been plaguing him for some time. "How would you describe me, Ray?"

Drawing up at a red light, Doyle's head turned in the near darkness. "You what?"

"You heard me. How would you describe me?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Physically,” said Bodie, beginning to feel a right fool.

Doyle took a deep, pleasurable breath.

"Yeah, all right,” said Bodie, conceding his mistake. "We'll take all the insults as read. What I mean is..." He shrugged and gave up. Only the fact he’d had had too much to drink on an empty stomach could have made him stupid enough to ask in the first place.

"Why?" Doyle got the car underway again.

"Just wondered how an official description would sound.”

There was a moment when Doyle thought he was referring back to the time when he had been on the run, the police and Willis’ men both after him, before he realised it was just Bodie's oddball curiosity coming to the fore.

"All the usual crap about average height, powerful build and dark hair, I s'pose,” he said, after a moment's thought. "They don't go into much detail, you know."

"Like what?”

"Well, you wouldn't be likely to mention the thickening waistline, crooked eyebrows and funny eyes for a start."

"What's wrong with my eyes?"

Doyle parked outside his flat, left the car and glanced across to where Bodie stood in the pool of light cast by a street lamp. "Not a thing. They're an unusual colour, that's all. Like school ink before the blotting paper and chewing gum gets shoved into the inkwell."

"All biros and felt tips nowadays," Bodie told him, but he knew there must be an idiot grin plastered across his face as they went up the first flight of stairs.

"What's wrong with the lift?"

"Broken, of course. Listen,” Doyle paused on the third landing, key in hand. "I should've warned you about this place. I haven't had much chance to unpack properly."

Bodie pushed the front door open. "Do surprise me. Dunno what you can have been doing with yourself, except working of course."

At the end of the narrow hallway he came to an abrupt halt. Ray's flats always had a lived-in look but this was taking things to the other extreme.

"Properly?" he echoed, perching wearily on the top of an unfastened tea chest. "You haven't even started, mate." He cast an interested eye around the high-ceilinged lounge. “Still, it's better than your last place. I didn't take to that one at all."

"Me neither." Doyle dragged off his sweat-stained jacket. "I haven't spent much time here but I like it. Or I will do when I've got things straight. Do that   
tomorrow." He drifted into the kitchen with the carrier bag of food, feeling   
unaccountably depressed.

Bodie followed him, watching the production of plates, forks and glasses from an open cardboard box.

"I'll give you a hand to get settled in if you like,” he offered, a sheepish grin appearing at Doyle's swift look of suspicion "My place is in the same state. Could use some help."

"I bet you do. Okay, it's a deal. You want any wine with this?" Doyle leant over to pull a bottle from the tea chest on the floor by his feet.

"Why, are we celebrating something?"

Doyle's face was concealed from sight as he bent to pick up a foil container that had dropped on the floor next to the waste bin. There must be something about this bottle of wine, he decided savagely but his voice was expressionless.

"Anything you can think of."

"Housewarming then,” suggested Bodie with haste, not understanding why it should matter to Doyle whether he had any or not but prepared to drink the whole bottle if it stopped him looking like that. He got busy with the corkscrew. "You doing anything tomorrow, apart from sleeping, that is?"

"Dunno, get the flats straight, I suppose.” Doyle silently toasted Bodie as he picked up his glass. "Wish I could remember where I bought this, it's a nice drop of stuff. Why, what did you have in mind?" Picking up his fork, he began chasing a bean sprout around the edge of his plate.

"Squash, then a swim and a drink afterwards,” said Bodie. Nothing they hadn't done many times before.

"Feeling lucky, are you?" Doyle enquired before attacking his untouched meal with vigour.

Bodies mouth slid into an irritating, cocky little grin. "I usually do while I'm playing you at squash."

"Smug bastard,” said Doyle amiably, through a large fork full of food. "You want to doss down here for the night?"

Bodie didn't even hesitate, "Yeah, get this place to rights, collect my gear, dump yours and we can do my place the day after."

He watched Doyle clear his plate with a fascinated eye. "You bought a new vacuum cleaner?" he enquired, taking a sedate mouthful to demonstrate how it was done.

"Healthy appetite.” Doyle set his fork down on an empty plate.

"Does that mean we get cheese and biscuits next?" asked Bodie, who was enjoying a meal for the first time in days.

Doyle silently pointed to the fridge and cupboards then got up to forage; he was whistling off-key by the time Bodie finished his meal.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1983


End file.
